CHAPTER 59
Operation Postman
McCoy’s radio came to life.
“Postman One, this is Company Overwatch, come in.”
McCoy handed the radio to Moose. “Sounds like the big boss.”
“Postman One, here.”
Holstrum recognized Moose’s voice. “Postman One, this is Company Overwatch. We’re tracking you, Mike Oscar Papa, and our Alpha in transit by eye in the sky, you copy?’
“Good copy.”
“Moving assets to your location ASAP. Alpha Hotel One Zulu will be on station by the time you arrive at target location. It will bring heavy assets to bear. Call sign Roz will supply fire support. Cutter nearby if the package goes to sea. Alpha in transit is heading south.”
“Alpha Hotel One Zulu,” Moose thought. “Great.” They were sending an AH-1Z attack helicopter known as a Viper, based on the older model SuperCobra. The Viper looked similar to the SuperCobra, but had four blades instead of two, and packed a punch with its M197 three-barreled Gatling gun. It also packed rockets and surface-to-air missiles. When close-air support was needed, nothing made a ground unit under heavy contact happier than the sound of either a Viper or a Warthog. It had been on the Coast Guard cutter and was now within range.
“Affirmative. North Star predicts location to be the boss’s HQ. We’re taking it slow to allow them to get there first. Need to get Alpha secure and confirm package, then planning on full assault.”
“Understood. We’re watching close. Good hunting. Out.”
Moose handed McCoy the radio. “Sounds like we’re on TV at the company store. They’re probably all sitting around drinking coffee, watching us like it’s the Super Bowl.” He happened to be one hundred percent correct.
The other members of the team nodded. They’d been here before—those moments before an assault, where the adrenaline was starting to pump, and it took everything inside to keep it controlled. Something about being inside the helo, with that
whump-whump
noise of the blades, that made it all very real. The team shared face paint as they started getting ready for a night assault.
***
Salazar’s SUVs began turning into a private road. A car parked at the side of the road in the grass served as the watchdog, with four gangbangers sitting in it hanging out—not that anyone would dare drive up that road uninvited. Not even the cops. They recognized the SUVs and just waved casually as Salazar’s convoy roared past, heading toward the front gate.
By the time they reached the gate, it was rolling open, having been activated by the remote in the lead vehicle. The SUVs slowed down and drove up the cobblestone driveway to the front of the villa. Like El Gato, Joaquin Salazar made it a point to have a castle in a land of corrugated steel huts. A king among serfs.
The house was sprawling, a ranch-style
hacienda
of stone and stucco, with immaculate landscaping, just like El Gato’s estate. They must have all tried to copy and outdo each other like some Hollywood stars. Somewhere, some architect in Mexico specialized in “cartel kingpin-style homes.” There was a carport attached by a covered breezeway to the house. It could hold seven cars, and the vehicle occupants didn’t need to walk outside to get to the house; they merely walked through the connecting hallway.
The carport doors began opening. Inside, there were spaces for three vehicles, next to the Maserati GranTurismo Sport Coupe, a large yellow Hummer H1, just because it looked Hollywood and could play off-road, and a Mercedes-Maybach S600. A sweet ride at a little over two hundred thousand, less than a day’s pay for Salazar. The fourth spot was filled to maximum capacity by an old box truck that didn’t fit with the other vehicles. Apo saw it but ignored it.
Lights inside the carport were very bright in the dark sky, and Salazar’s small collection of vehicles gleamed next to the dirty truck.
“Can you guess which one is yours?” asked Joaquin.
“Well, if I was at home, I’d say the Mercedes, but today, most likely that piece of shit truck.”
“Very good. You are welcome to stay the evening at my home and drive it to your destination in the morning.”
Apo contemplated the best plan of action, unsure of the status of his backup. “It’s kind of you to offer, but I must get this truck to its destination immediately and call in to command to let them know the deal is on. There will be logistics to work out as well, of course. Where you would like the shipments to go, for instance. Landing on the opposite coast is much easier.”
“And won’t be a problem with Las Zetas out of business. We’ll start finishing them off in a day or two, before they reorganize. As far as you leaving tonight, I’d advise against it. The roads are dark and not well marked. It’s easy to get lost. You are taking the truck to the coast, yes?”
“Arista,” replied Apo, assuming that Mustafa had probably divulged the plan under questioning.
Joaquin nodded. “If you insist on leaving this evening, I can have my men escort you. No one will bother you, and they can guide you to the small dock.”
“That is most accommodating of you,” said Apo. In his head, he was thinking, “
Perfect!
”
“I’ll have my men take you at once, or if you prefer, I can have a meal prepared.”
“Again, very kind of you. I ate well on the plane. It’s urgent I get on the road.”
“As you wish.”
Salazar’s men opened the doors for Apo and Joaquin, and they stepped out into the light of the garage. Mustafa came up behind them from another vehicle.
Apo turned to Mustafa. “We’ll be leaving immediately. I’ll inspect the package, and then we are driving to Arista tonight.”
Mustafa looked instantly relieved. “I’ll be very happy to get out of here and away from these men.”
“They’ll escort us and show us the way, but we’re safe. The mission goes on.” Apo turned to Joaquin. “Can I see the package now?”
“As you wish, of course.” He yelled over to his men, who walked over to the truck and unlocked the back, then pulled open the double doors. Sitting inside on a large pallet was the strange-looking device.
Apo walked over with Mustafa close behind. His mind was racing. He had seen prototypes before and studied these weapons before the mission, but this one was slightly different in design. Definitely not a US model. He walked to the rear of the truck and looked closer, examining it as best he could without appearing too suspicious.
“It looks to be in good working order,” he said to Joaquin. “I extend my thanks, once again, I or my people will be in contact with you shortly. If you give me your phone number or e-mail address, I will put it on my own phone.” Apo handed his phone to Joaquin, who took it and opened Apo’s contacts.
“They use iPhones in Syria, too? I had no idea, Ali.”
“The weapon of choice for drug cartels and armies around the world,” replied Apo with a smile. “Enter your information and call me, and my information will appear on your phone.” (“As well as the CIA’s instant tracking system virus,” he thought.)
Joaquin entered his information and called himself so it would appear on Apo’s phone. “There. Now you have my information. I’d like to get the shipments started as soon as possible. As far as ammunition goes, I can get plenty. We’ll just need to be careful about sending. Container ship, disguised as something else, usually works.”
“Excellent. When I get to Arista, the boat should be nearby. My mission will be completed, and the business can begin. Your first shipment can be here within ten days, I would think. We can make sure it’s a large enough shipment to make you happy, and show our sincerity and ability to work together.”
Joaquin Salazar smiled, a genuine smile of happiness. He was going to control the biggest supply of heroin in all of Mexico—perhaps the world. “This is very good news!”
CHAPTER 60
Langley
“Holy shit,” said Director Holstrum with a smile. “Sonofabitch is good.”
Dex Murphy was in the room, along with Darren Davis, watching the satellite images from Mexico in real time.
“Apo got Salazar to give him his fucking phone number! Son of a bitch called it to store his information. We can track the GPS coordinates of Salazar and Apo in real time. It looks like Apo is on the move, away from the compound. Salazar is stationary at his house.”
Holstrum was getting excited. It was almost time to spring the assault. Apo just needed to get a little further. The director was the only person in the CIA who had actual knowledge of the MOP. The fact that two of his MOP team were now with the special ops team made things a little complicated, but Darren and Dex were wise enough to know when to ask questions and when not to. Holstrum decided it was time to let them in on the additional manpower.
“Listen up. Just so you know, the two pilots that brought Apo are mine.”
“Of course,” said Darren. He was slightly confused by the comment. Of course they’d be CIA or special operators and not just some private pilots for a mission like this.
“No. I mean, they’re
mine
. That’s all I can say about that, but the team has two very able-bodied additions to assist with any assault on the compound.”
Darren and Dex knew it meant contract killers, and didn’t push the issue.
“Good, we’ll need all the firepower we can get,” said Darren.
“I spoke to General Ortega a little while ago. We discussed the arrest of Salazar.”
“And?”
The general’s comment, and this is a quote, in perfect English, by the way: “Fuck him.”
“So no arrest?”
“I’m instructing the team to treat this as an assault on an enemy target. They’re terrorists and mass murderers. There shouldn’t be much left to arrest. The Mexican Special Forces will get full credit for the op. We were never there.”
“Roger that,” said Darren. “We’re never
anywhere
.” He smiled.
Director Holstrum continued to watch the two small dots on his electronic map continue to separate. When he calculated that they were three kilometers away from each other, and Apo was halfway to Arista, he got his interpreter on the phone and called Apo’s number, which was bounced off a Syrian tower again.
Apo’s phone vibrated on his belt as Mustafa drove the old truck behind the SUV. He picked up the phone and answered in Arabic.
The CIA interpreter was in another room and was relaying messages from Holstrum, who couldn’t be heard on the call, so there were gaps in the call. More or less, it just sounded like a lousy connection, not unlikely when calling from an ISIS war zone.
“Greetings from command,” said the voice.
“We are almost at Arista to continue our mission, God willing. We have one vehicle in front of us escorting us to the pier. We’re following in a truck with the package. Everything appears in working order,” replied Apo.
The interpreter repeated it back to Holstrum quickly in English. Holstrum was beaming, and replied quickly.
“Excellent news. We will have a friend to greet your escort. Keep a safe distance. Special delivery will arrive for Sinaloas very shortly.”
Apo understood. “Very well. I will keep a sharp eye. We will speak again.” He hung up.
“A sharp eye for what?” asked the nervous Mustafa, who had heard Apo’s half of the conversation. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything is perfect. Just stay back a little farther. The package is very heavy. If they stop short, we’ll hit them. This truck is old and its brakes are shit.”
“It drives okay . . .”
“I said stay a safe distance,” snapped Apo. Mustafa complied and the truck slowed down.
***
Holstrum pointed to Darren Davis. “Make the call to Roz.”
Roz was the call sign of the pilot on the Viper. Actually a US Navy pilot, she had been tasked with the Coast Guard for this mission because the cutter was the closest ship that had a landing pad. She had flown from another task force within range.
Darren called the pilot, Nicole Rozman, on her radio inside the cockpit. “Company Overwatch to Voodoo One, come in, over.”
“This is Voodoo One. Good copy.”
“Sending you uplink to target. Two vehicles. Friendly vehicle will be lit up, in the rear position. It’s a truck. Escort should be in front and won’t light your GPS. You are cleared to eliminate target. Out.”
“Good copy, Overwatch. We are five minutes to target, coming in hot. Friendly now appearing on my computer. Out.”
She repeated the instructions to her gunner sitting in front of her, and Kevin “TK” Black, who had already heard it once, reaffirmed the target and the friendly. She dropped down slightly in altitude and raced the engines to full thrust, hitting two hundred knots.
“Time to target, less than five mikes.”
Back in Langley, the director called into his team aboard the Mexican Black Hawks.
McCoy handed the radio to Moose when the call came in.
“Postman One,” said Moose.
“This is Company Overwatch. Viper inbound to eliminate Apo’s escort. He will have to take care of whoever’s with him by himself, and we’ll pick him up after-action. You are green light to Operation Mailman. ROE are clear: kill everything you see inside that compound. There are no friendlies inside. We have confirmed Apo’s location. Repeat. No friendlies inside. Out.”
Moose handed the radio to McCoy and gave his men a thumbs-up. “We are green light. Apo is not in the location and there are no friendlies inside the compound. Assume all targets inside are threats and you are cleared to fire. That sound correct to you, general?”
“Affirmative. We will soften the target first, and you and my men will be placed inside the walls. The capture of Salazar or his men is not important to Mexico.” General Ortega spoke to his own radioman in Spanish, who made the call to the other pilots. The birds banked right and fanned out in attack formation, a slight V, with the general’s bird second from center on the right. Everyone could feel the Black Hawks increase speed as they started to drop in altitude. The attack was on.
Ripper leaned forward and smacked Jon in his vest. “We’re meat eaters! Get some!”
Jon held up his grenade launcher and gritted his teeth. “I’ll make an impression.”
“You hear that, people? It’s
on
! Almost time to rock and roll. Black Hawks make a gun run and then we unass this bird inside their perimeter. All targets are hostile.”
“
Oooo-Rrraaaah!
” shouted Hodges, the only United States Marine aboard. He had kept the sniper rifle in its cover and pulled his close-quarters MP5. He would be joining in a rapid assault, not providing sniper cover.
The pilot’s voice came over their headsets. “Time to target, sixty seconds.”
The team members began taking safeties off and chambering rounds. “Oh it’s
on
, motherfuckers!” shouted McCoy to no one in particular. They were all too pumped up to remain quiet.
The pilot turned off all inside lights in the helicopter. Only the panel of the cockpit emitted any light, which was invisible from outside the bird. They picked up speed and dropped even lower.